There are two distinct versions of Eric: the show it believes itself to be and the show it is. Sold as a psychological thriller about a children’s-television creator (played by Benedict Cumberbatch) who develops an increasingly unhinged relationship with a figment of his imagination, the series morphs into a procedural crime thriller that handles hot-button topics with all the grace, finesse, and restraint of Cookie Monster navigating a plate of snickerdoodles. Within the span of six disjoined episodes, Eric neglects its intriguing premise to cram in shallow treatments of issues such as systemic racism, the homelessness epidemic, police brutality, child abuse, the mental health crisis, and government corruption.
Created and written in its entirety by The Iron Lady screenwriter Abi Morgan – who seems a bit too enamored with her idea of the show to let it find much-needed breathing space – Eric begins as the story of Vincent (Cumberbatch), the unstable man at the helm of a Sesame Street-like show called Good Day Sunshine in 1980s New York. Public interest in Vincent’s creation is at a low ebb, and the dynamics between the many embittered members of the cast have seen much better days, but it remains beloved by his 9-year-old son, Edgar (Ivan Morris). Edgar lives in awe of the jolly characters brought to life by not-so-jolly adults, and envisions his very own puppet – the titular Eric – in hopes his father will one day add it to the show’s roster. In a cruel twist of irony, this furry blue hybrid of The Gruffalo and Sulley from Monsters, Inc. eventually finds its way to our screens – as the comically large (and, granted, amusing) figment of Vincent’s imagination, whispering harsh truths into his ear after Edgar mysteriously vanishes one morning.
Vincent’s quest to find his son and rid himself of his newfound, unwelcome companion introduces the show’s far too large supporting cast, who orbit around four primary settings: the Good Day Sunshine studio, the police precinct where Detective Michael Ledroit (McKinley Belcher III) investigates Edgar’s disappearance, an encampment on the streets of New York, and a seedy nightclub called The Lux. Vincent floats through these spaces as his paranoia takes hold, no longer anchored by work duties or a family routine alongside his wife, Cassie (Gaby Hoffmann), as Eric zigzags through the New York underbelly in the ’80s in all its grit and grime. This back-and-forth is less about emulating the main character’s mental state than it is about servicing the show’s several parallel storylines – and its many satellite characters – but it does allow for an interesting tour of this reconstructed New York, perhaps Eric’s greatest triumph. The city feels welcomingly authentic, a labyrinthine spiral of dirty chaos ready to engulf this fragile man.
Once Detective Ledroit comes into play, Eric shifts into procedural gear, checking in on Vincent’s fraying state of mind via surrealist vignettes. Pivoting between these two modes causes a tonal whiplash and leads to Eric’s greatest mishap: its infuriatingly superficial treatment of racism. “You want to know how to spell racist? NYPD,” a Black lawyer tells the Black detective after the Black janitor at Vincent’s building is arrested as a suspect in Edgar’s abduction. This is one of many blank statements thrown about by Morgan’s scripts. The writing pats itself on the back for pointing out the most obvious acts of discrimination while failing to build any meaningful commentary on the dire racial politics of this very specific time and place.
A series of Black men are constantly belittled, falsely accused and violently murdered over the course of Eric. They’re all seen through the lens of the angelic white boy gone missing, a framing Morgan seems to think makes for a pointed observation on the different treatment of white and Black victims. But it only perpetuates the discrepancy, adding to a stigma the show sets out to denounce. Once Eric comes to its predictable ending, we remember these characters not as fully formed people caught in a twisted web of violence and abuse, but as new examples of a cliché. Belcher does a brilliant job as a cop burdened with keeping his sexuality a secret while his long-time partner dies of AIDS. Unfortunately, Eric is much more interested in using him as a token – when it comes to both race and sexuality – than exploring who he is beyond these two defining traits.
As Eric takes a full plunge into CSI territory, Morgan expands the tendrils of conspiracy and corruption to encompass not only the police department but the government of New York, introducing a slew of similar-looking white men in suits who show up on screen only to complain about the poor and people of color and shout slogans like “we need to clean up the streets” and “make this city great again.” (Ugh.) One such man, the only one whose name the series is concerned with repeating more than twice, is Vincent’s father, Robert (John Doman), a greedy property developer who spent many years mistaking his son’s mental health issues for weakness.
This is another of Eric’s many miscalculations. In failing to show any curiosity for Vincent’s mania outside of how it leads to its quirky premise, Eric contributes to the myth of the mad creative, equating genius with mental illness and lazily placing the brunt of the blame on childhood trauma. The only times Eric comes close to unearthing a sliver of raw emotion is when Hoffman is onscreen: She’s equipped to walk the flimsy line between love and guilt. In her position within the familial dynamics at play here, Hoffmann returns to some of the themes she elegantly explored in Mike Mills’ drama C’mon C’mon – and does so just as tenderly and heartbreakingly. It is a shame that Eric is so quick to walk away from the potential of the relationships within that household, choosing instead to unravel as a comic book with some of its most crucial pages ripped out.
